


298. purple bruises

by piggy09



Series: The Sestre Daily Drabble Project [7]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:57:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7412158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some queens hold court in glittering halls. Some queens hold court in the tops of skyscrapers. Some queens hold court in clubs that pound with bass, so loud it rattles the bones of you. So loud that, when you step through the door, your heart shakes itself into alignment with that drum-thumping heartbeat.</p><p>You are here to see the twins. There is a job that you need done. There is no one else in the world who can do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	298. purple bruises

**Author's Note:**

> [warning: brief blink-and-you'll-miss-it allusion to possible abuse]

Some queens hold court in glittering halls. Some queens hold court in the tops of skyscrapers. Some queens hold court in clubs that pound with bass, so loud it rattles the bones of you. So loud that, when you step through the door, your heart shakes itself into alignment with that drum-thumping heartbeat.

You are here to see the twins. There is a job that you need done. There is no one else in the world who can do it.

This is their court, and everyone knows it, much as they pretend that they don’t. Everyone watches everyone else, wondering: did she fuck you, did she stab you, did she pop up behind you and tell you to get her a hamburger at four in the morning. Did you do it. (This is not a question, not really. Of course you did, and she thanked you for it with a loud smacking kiss on the cheek that felt like mockery and blessing both.) What did you ask from her. What did you receive.

You find her by the bar, drinking bourbon. Switchblade-sister, hair a tangled mane of brown. You sit next to her. You offer to buy her a drink.

“I’ve already got one,” she says, looking at you like you’ve said something funny. “Could try harder, yeah?”

Yeah. But you’re distracted by the flick of blade up the sleeve of her leather jacket, the quick flash of pistol when she shifts the jacket’s hem – like a flash of ankle, maybe. Something like that. A little darker. A different sort of metal.

“You want us for a job,” she says. It isn’t a question.

“I do,” you say. You unfold the photograph. You push it across the bar; it taps against her half-empty glass, and she frowns at it.

“Shite,” she mutters at whatever she sees there, and she tips the rest of the bourbon down her throat – hops off her barstool. She shoves her hands in her pockets, saunters a few steps backwards. “Don’t s’pose you want to dance,” she says, eyes wicked and wild.

You want to. You want to wrap your hands around her hips and suck at the skin of her neck until she bruises with your teeth. You shake your head _no_ and she smiles, quicksilver-quick: _you passed._ She heads into the crowd. They part around her, like a sea.

You order a bourbon. It burns going down. The bartender shoots you an amused look; she has probably seen this sort of thing before.

The crowd is a terrifying thrashing jumble of arms and hips and near-sex. Offering of one sort or another, sex or salt or blood. Doesn’t seem like whatever gods are listening particularly care what they get, and everyone knows. Old-style worship. Bacchanalia.

Your heart kicks, once, when you see them. Your girl who isn’t your girl at all, and the girl who is completely hers. They’re dancing. Brown hair whispering in blonde hair’s ear, the two of them knocking against each other like two flints. Blonde one’s watching you. Slit-throat-sister, eyes sharp and curious on you in the flashing lights. You can’t tell if there’s a bruise on her neck or if it’s just her sister’s shadow spilling over her skin.

She winks at you, once, and then turns and whispers something in her sister’s ear. The two of them part the crowd. One of them sits on one side of you, one on the other. The blonde one takes your drink.

“So,” she says. She tips the drink down her throat the same way her sister did. It’s so strange, here, funhouse mirrors flashing in the fractured light. “Big job. You have the money?”

You do have the money. You show her. Her eyes dart up, meet her sister’s eyes. They exchange a series of complicated looks, and then the one in the leather jacket reaches out and snags the envelope between your fingers. She mutters _cheers_ as it slides into the pocket of her jacket.

“Good?” says the blonde.

“Good,” says the brunette.

“Good!” says the blonde. She leans in front of you, across the bar, so her face fills the entirety of your vision. “I am Helena. That is Sarah. We are going to get to know you very well, I think.”

You open your mouth. You tell her your name.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please kudos + comment if you enjoyed! :)


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